


Speak the Truth and Undo the Wicked

by godmolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Gay, Homophobia, M/M, Medieval AU, Sherlock is a Stressed OutTM prince, but he has good reason lol, idk - Freeform, is it clary, john is lowkey a thief, johnlock au, johnlock royalty au, mycroft is honestly trying his best, or hara, there's gonna be a dragon, whats the ship name for harry & clara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godmolly/pseuds/godmolly
Summary: Sherlock wants to die and John wants to survive.(A Johnlock Medieval AU where Sherlock is an overworked heir to the throne and John steals from the royal gardens to feed and heal people)





	Speak the Truth and Undo the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> yeet so we're back again and this time with a multi chapter fic with a PLOT :o :o :o  
> this is gonna be such an adventure honestly so wheeeeee

Sherlock had never asked for this.

He had never wanted this life, this home, this mind. Yet here he was, with sore eyes and a stiff back, in an over-perfumed room with too-heavy clothes.

He forced his heavy eyelids up, sitting forward in his chair. Mycroft’s figure was bent over several pieces of parchment a few feet away at the large wooden table Sherlock hated so much. Heavy volumes and inkwells were piled and scattered over the scarred wood, worn from so many years of use. The table was surrounded by a tall forest of looming bookcases, overflowing to the point of danger of toppling at a wrong step. The soaring stone ceiling of the study was dark, as the heavy drapes were pulled over the windows and the only light source were dimly lit candles, their wax dripping steadily and the wicks slowly shriveling.

The humid, smoky air filled the prince’s lungs, sparking a feeling of slow suffocation in this damned place. Sherlock longed to push open the carved doors that trapped him here, to escape into the open, airy corridors of the palace. He set his elbows on the table and pushed his chin into his hands.

A dull throb began to beat its pattern into his skull.

He closed his eyes, relishing the cool dark that resulted.

-

“Well, good afternoon, your highness,” Mycroft drawled, not sparing a glance at Sherlock. “How was your catnap?”

“I fell asleep? How long?” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“About an hour, maybe more,” Mycroft said, tossing a thin book down on the table. He still didn’t look up. “How reassuring it would be for people to know their future ruler is sleeping when he should be learning how to run a kingdom.”

“Remind me again why you’re not next in line?” Sherlock huffed, standing up and stretching. His curly hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat; the room really was much too warm.

“I am,” Mycroft sighed, finally bringing his head up to shoot a sharp glance at Sherlock, “technically speaking.”

“Right, and I’m ‘special’, which means they want me to be king next,” Sherlock whispered, looking at the piled sheets of parchment in front of him.

Really, what’s the point of all this? Who needs to know these things?

He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, the sight of the work he had chosen to leave untouched causing a small wave of panic to stir in his chest. He sat back down, picked up a page, and reluctantly began to read.

It’s all useless.

The two brothers worked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustling of parchment and pages and the scratching of quills. Sherlock stared at the lines of words until they began to blur. He tried his best to focus, but his attention always seemed to slip away.

He fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, his eyes darting around the room. The boy gazed at the neverending pile of work; another, stronger wave of despair making its way into his mind.

His breath gradually grew shallower as he let his doubts and fears take the place of his usual grim resignation. He clenched his clammy hands into fists in a weak attempt to cease their shaking.

Mycroft looked up from his book to see Sherlock sitting, stricken, at the end of the table.

“Oh, get out of here,” the young man snapped. “I’m not going to get anything else out of you today.” He waved a hand at his sibling dismissively.

Sherlock barely heard him, but he stood up quickly and grabbed his papers, rushing out of the room. He shoved open the heavy doors, bursting into the bright, stone halls of the kingdom’s crown jewel, scrambling away from the study as fast as possible. His fussy, ill-fitting shoes irritated him to no end as he sped through the corridors, taking huge gulps of the clean air. He ran up a sprawling staircase, scrambling to make it to his room before Mycroft called him back.

The prince skidded to a stop outside his chambers, tucking his papers under one arm so he could reach the key hung around his neck and unlock the door. He ducked into his room with an audible sigh of relief and slumping against the ornate doorway.

Sherlock let his papers fall to the floor, not caring that he’d have to pick them up later.

He moved over to the windows and threw them open, sticking his head out to feel the cool breeze on his flushed cheeks. He withdrew after a long moment and yanked off his shoes frantically, pulling his heavy woolen shirt over his head and kicking off his trousers until he stood in only his undergarments. He sat back on his bed, letting himself sink into the soft covers.

He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, staring up at the ceiling. The rising and falling of his thin chest slowed until his breathing returned to normal.

The boy slowly stood up and moved over to his wardrobe, opening the doors and crouching down to throw open the lid of a heavy trunk nestled at the bottom. He pulled out a soft longsleeved shirt and simple black pants, very plain compared to the clothes he wore just moments ago. He pulled them on swiftly, then laid on his stomach to pull a pair of soft brown boots from under his bed. He tugged them on and laced them up quickly.

The beautiful sunlight was calling him.

Sherlock sprinted through the heavily decorated walls of the palace, air filling his lungs and pushing out his sunken chest. The pale skin of his face flushed with color as he stumbled to a halt and turned down a passageway that led to his favorite place on this dull, tasteless Earth: the royal gardens.

-

He emerged into the sunlight with an audible sigh. The boy gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of his surroundings before slowly taking them in.

The gardens were incredibly lush and filled with scores of exotic flora and fauna that the king and queen had shipped home from their trips abroad. Peacocks waltzed along the well-maintained paths while the petals of blossoms in every size and shape swirled to the ground in the slight breeze. The beautiful blue sky was laced with wisps of delicate clouds.

Sherlock breathed in the aroma of a thousand different species and set off along one of the paths that sprawled out before him.

He travelled along the sun-dappled stones, gazing into the greenery surrounding him. Weeping willows brushed the top of his curly crop of hair with their fingerlike leaves and clovers stuck to the soles of his shoes. The garden was Sherlock’s happy place— a way to escape from the demands of his parents and the throne that would soon be his.

The prince sat down in one of the little swings that had been built when he and Mycroft had been small boys. It wasn’t as if they ever had time to play, Sherlock thought a little bitterly. Their royal education was a much greater priority in their father’s eyes. The little free time Sherlock did have was spent on etiquette lessons or other princely things, like swordfighting (which Sherlock detested, despite his natural talent) or public speaking (which was a waste of time, in his own humble opinion).

Sherlock pushed himself back and forth idly, the silence of the gardens a welcome contrast to the constant din in the palace. The activity in the palace had increased considerably in the past few days— servants cleaning, cooking, sewing— even rooms Sherlock had never seen the inside of were dusted and swept within an inch of their lives. He wondered at the sudden burst of energy. His parents has hinted slyly at something big happening for Sherlock. Possibly a ceremony—his parents were incredibly fond of hosting pointless extravagant coming-of-age rituals for the young royalty. When Mycroft turned sixteen, the king and queen hosted a three-day-long festival in his honor. Sherlock spent all of it hidden away in a corner, his nose in one of the fantasy novels he hid in his closet, dreaming about a world far away from here.

The soft swaying of the leaves and the shadows cast by the quickly-sinking sun sent the prince’s thoughts wandering. He perched in the swing for hours as the sky steadily darkened and twilight began to wind its fingers through the gardens. He was snapped back to reality when a clanging bell reached his ears, startling him. He flew out of the swing and took off along the path. Late for dinner for the fifth time this week; his parents would certainly have an earful for him tonight. The boy arrived at the doorway to the gardens flushed and gasping for air. As he turned to say goodbye to his little haven, a flash of movement caught his eye.

A patch of blond hair and one dark eye stared out at Sherlock from the greenery.

Before Sherlock could call out, a voice from inside the door trilled, “Master Sherlock? Master Sherlock, it’s suppertime! Your parents are waiting!” Sighing, he turned and disappeared back into the palace, vowing to return tomorrow and investigate the blond hair and the dark eye.

 

-Felix


End file.
